


burnt tongues and bleeding hearts

by angelheartbeat



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Depressed John, Depression, Earth C, JohnDave Week, M/M, Post-Game, Post-Sburb, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Vent Work, its still johndave week right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 11:44:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11440173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelheartbeat/pseuds/angelheartbeat
Summary: john reminisces. john remembers.john tries to forget.





	burnt tongues and bleeding hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Projecting my thoughts and feelings onto fictional characters? Preposterous.
> 
> This is only loosely based on me anyways, its just a vent thingy. Take it as you will. Like the scenario is nothing close to me, but hey, thats the way it goes, just enjoy the darn fic.

He can't feel anything. Well. He doesn't want to feel anything.

He would much rather forget everything, but the sharp sting of a burnt tongue lies thick and heavy in his mouth; inescapably harsh, binding him close to reality and far from escapability. He is meant to be the wind - fickle, flighty, able to escape wherever he pleased, whenever he pleased, but he feels impossibly restrained, limbs cold and tickled by the grass he lies in, the grass that no wind blows through, for the windy boy is tired of wind.

He supposes it was inevitable to feel so cold, but he never expected the ringing in his ears to be accompanied with impossible quiet, not even the ticking of a clock. It has been this way since the game ended: since he lost and gained everything at the exact same time; since his life changed, immeasurably, forever; since his world crashed and burned and was reborn, thanks to a few assholes in brightly coloured god robes; since he realised he was in love.

To himself, he knows he should elaborate on that last point, but even in the safety of his own mind, he doesn't like thinking about it. 

But in the safety of his own heart, it thumps in time with the ticking of a clock, speeds up at the sight of crimson, shaded eyes, flutters and swoops in the breeze at the touch of calloused hands, the brush of scarred shoulders against his own, before settling back into the familiar tick, keeping the same beat, always.

He sighs. A tendril of breath wraps around him, and he brushes it off with a flick of his wrist, blades of grass brushing the recent - and old - scars on his bare wrist, making him flinch and shudder. He holds a sense of pride in himself for being able to keep his arms resolutely bare, even with the thin scars littering them, even if it does mean concerned glances and lines of questioning from each of his friends. Each except for the shaded blond. 

He isn't sure why Dave never questions them. Perhaps he is simply too obtuse to notice - but no, Jake notices, and if he can notice then anyone can. English isn't exactly known for observational skills. Perhaps he feels he is too cool to ask - but no, Dirk asks, and he is maybe the only one who thinks he is cooler than his brother. The older Strider isn't known for emotional questions, but even he asks. Perhaps he doesn't know what they are - but no, Rose isn't exactly as subtle as she thinks when she asks about them. Lalonde isn't exactly shy about trying to help. 

Then, why? 

Perhaps Dave doesn't care about him. Perhaps he'd rather the scars continued until he bled out and just left them alone. But even then, he would return, not by choice but by painful game constructs that force him to remain here, held down by the sharp taste of a burnt tongue and a bleeding heart.

He sighs. Dave isn't the only factor contributing to the scars. There is his father. There is the emptiness that claws at his throat, ensnares his brain, threatens to consume his mind, and he cannot tell whether he would rather stop feeling this way or continue and just not feel anything at all. 

It almost earns a laugh, and that is a feeling that makes tears well up and a laugh bubble up in his chest, because it is painful to think about everything, and he feels impossibly inadequate, despite being a god, despite literally bringing a new universe into existence, he still feels like nothing, like he should be dead. And he could be, if it wasn't for this conditional immortality that is both a blessing and a curse.

His chest shudders with a shaky intake of breath, and the first tear rolls down his cheek, finds a home in the grass and sinks into the ground, creating a damp spot in the dirt, only to be joined by countless others, none of which are washed away, because what is the point? He cannot bring his arms to move again, let alone wipe away some little tears. How pathetic.

His burnt tongue remains binding him to this plane of reality, painful with every second that went past, and his fingers twitch with the desire to interlock them with those of a boy who could tell him exactly how many seconds were going past, and sooth his burnt tongue with kisses. 

He knows it will solve nothing. He will go on feeling like this. It will hurt him. It already hurts him. There is nothing he can do.

There is nothing he can do but lie and cry gently, lie and think about everything, lie and wish he felt a little less empty, lie and feel his tongue burn and his heart bleed and wish with all he has that he could stop feeling this way. 

He knows it will never work.

**Author's Note:**

> Dude I dont know


End file.
